


We Can Make The World Stop

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Stanford Era, need i say more?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 22:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12285624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: Stand still, pause clocks// Sam has an exam in half an hour.





	We Can Make The World Stop

Sam has an exam in half an hour.

He’s not ready.

The clock on the wall ticks louder with each successive minute he crams. He shoots it a frustrated glare whenever he notices. He’d’ve replaced it with a digital one ages ago, but it’s bolted to the wall. Thanks, Stanford.

At least he’s got his own room. Pure luck for a freshman. Sam was expecting the special hell of two roommates or, if he were especially cursed, an ensuite shared with three or four other bodies. He must’ve looked nuts to the check-in lady when she confirmed his placement and he nearly cried in relief.

It’s a mixed blessing, though. Sure, he doesn’t have the distractions of strangers, sights and sounds and smells, but what he does have is the irrepressible presence of all this empty air around him, and the damn clock.

Sam has never had this much space all to himself before. The first time he spent the entire weekend naked on his own was revolutionary.

He sighs. Back to task. He’s got to pass this test if he wants his professor to like him, _needs_ him to like him if he wants to make it here: his professor, the rumpled guy teaching entry-level courses with a pink, blow-up gavel on his podium, is the head of Stanford Law.

Sam sighs again.

A _tap-tap-tap_ on his door kickstarts an adrenaline rush. He doesn’t answer. Whoever they are will probably just assume he’s not there.

_Wait, what the fuck?_

He can hear the unmistakable scrape of a pick in the lock.

It’s a deadbolt, but that doesn’t mean anything to experience. Standing, silently reaching for the gun he totally doesn’t keep in his nightstand—

The door springs open.

To admit _Dean,_ dressed in his grungy work coverall, sliding through a foot-wide crack with the grace of a panther and shutting it behind him with a _snick._ He turns, grinning, a smudge of grease on his cheek.

“Heya, Sammy,” he says, slightly out of breath.

“Dean…?” Sam queries. He shuts the nightstand drawer again. “What are you—”

But Dean is striding toward him, eyes bright with intent, reaching out and yanking him close to kiss him. Sam gasps through his nose, tilting his head out of habit. His hands find familiar spots on Dean’s sides as their bodies slot together.

Dean is one long line of heat. Sam has forgotten what he was doing, where he is, and how to breathe.

The kiss breaks.

“Hey,” Dean says, low and even more out of breath. His forehead rests against Sam’s. Twists, just a little. Dean’s brand of affection is easy to miss if you aren’t looking.

“Did you run up the stairs?” Sam asks in a daze. “What are you even doing here?”

“I’m on break. Wanted to see you.” Dean pecks at the tip of Sam’s nose. “I know you got an exam, I wanted to wish you luck.”

“On break? Dean, that’s,” Sam glances at the time. His brother works for a local mechanic, and is only ever allowed a strict half-hour for lunch. He usually takes it at noon-thirty. By Sam’s clock, he’s only got twenty minutes left.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean murmurs. It sounds odd, and Sam looks back to see why only to find Dean much shorter than he should be.

Headed to his knees.

The realization is all Sam needs to start getting hard in his cargo shorts. Of course he’s wearing loose boxers today, instead of boxer briefs. Of course they’re soft, and worn, and—Oh, shit. They’re Dean’s.

He gets harder even faster.

Dean is on his knees now, grease-stained fingers fumbling at Sam’s button.

A sticky drop of precome soaks into soft cotton.

“Dude,” Sam gasps, looking at the clock again, plucking unconvincingly at Dean’s shoulders, his hair, “we don’t have time.”

With a smirk and a look in his eye that should be illegal, Dean rumbles, “I always have time for you, baby boy.”

And he bends.

“Dean, De— _ah!_ ”

Sam’s head drops back, jaw gaping, eyelids hanging low, his fingers digging into Dean’s hair by rote. They’ve done this so many times, in so many places, and the plethora of deja vu in Dean’s familiar _lick, suck, swirl_ just takes Sam higher. His lips tremble, remembering how Dean tastes on them, as Dean’s tongue finds the tender wrinkle of his glans and teases.

People have gotten shot, stabbed, and knocked the fuck out for even _suggesting_ Dean is half as good at this as he’s proven to be. Sam still finds it difficult to praise his brother aloud. He lets Dean know how good this feels with little whimpers, the twitching of his fingers in Dean’s hair, his nails on Dean’s scalp. On Dean’s back, when a particularly good hard suck has Sam doubling over.

His breaths take on a note; not a sigh, but not a shriek. He moans on every exhale, careful to keep it _sotto voce_. He’s had plenty of experience maintaining silence on hunts. But Dean is just so good at this. Sam can’t stay quiet.

He doesn’t want to.

Here at stupid school, though, he has to, so he makes up for it by working his hips, letting Dean handle him.

Dean seems just as hungry for it as he is. He’s working it _deep_ , taking all nine inches of Sam’s full hardness into his throat like it’s nothing. The rhythm he sets would be punishing if they were fucking. Sam knows he can take it. Loves how he takes it. At the back of his mind, there’s always that concern— _love you, don’t wanna hurt you_ —

But there’s also the fact that Dean hasn’t drawn a breath in almost a full minute, and Sam knows for a fact he’s hard as nails in that coverall.

Hello, not-so-secret secret choking kink.

Sam discovered it over time. They’ve never talked about it. It’s just not that hard to know your partner’s tells after long, especially if you’ve known them your whole life. And Sam loves to make Dean feel good.

He’s even prouder when he hits one of those hidden switches.

When Dean finally does pull off to breathe, it’s ragged. His eyes, when he gazes up at Sam, hand working over Sam’s length with purpose, are hooded and dark.

“Get up here,” Sam rasps, leaning back toward the rumpled mess of his bed, the cheap flannel comforter and navy jersey sheets.

Green eyes dart to the clock.

“We have ten minutes,” Sam says in a rush, shoving Dean along. Dean’s legs hit the side of the bed. He goes down on his back, bouncing a little, unzipping his coverall to reveal smooth skin, edible clavicles, and the sunflare of his tattoo.

Sam is already up and swinging a leg over.

They have this figured out, too. They only need to work Dean’s coverall down to mid-chest for Sam to be able to access Dean’s cock through the zipper opening. There’s no more talking as they situate. Sam digs his brother out of his boxers, flushed and fat and dripping, mouth watering as he takes in the sight.

He moans at it, licks at it, Dean taking him back in to the hilt.

And Sam buries the head of Dean’s cock in his throat, his nose in wiry curls.

The zipper might leave his nose raw. He doesn’t care. He could have the nickname Rudolph for the rest of his Stanford career, and it would only make him laugh—no one would ever know he got it for blowing his brother in a hurry before a test.

Oh, god, but Dean makes up for no time. He’s sucking Sam’s soul out drop by drop, encouraging Sam to slam his hips down in time with the bobs of his head over Dean’s own cock, sucking out Dean’s soul. They’re an ourobouros, Sam thinks with a brain devoid of blood. Beginning and end in one fluid—

Orgasm takes him by surprise, washing over him, hot and wet.

He takes flight.

When he comes back down, Dean is wringing the last of him from his slit, pumping desperately upward into Sam’s slack mouth. Almost guiltily, Sam resumes treatment, pulling out every trick in the book. A light scraping of teeth is all she wrote.

“God, _Sammy—!”_

Like Dean, Sam swallows every last drop. It’s not that he loves the taste, or anything. It’s just…

It’s Dean.

When Sam rolls off, they form a yin-yang. He always kind of loves it.

Nuzzling Dean’s shin, he lets himself breathe, soaking in the afterglow, feeling Dean’s heartbeat reverberate through his body.

He never wishes more for anything than when he can’t stay with Dean for long. If he didn’t feel like he needed to go to school, needed to be in criminal justice, he’d stay right by Dean’s side forever. What eases the ache is knowing that Dean, if he didn’t need to make money to stay in Palo Alto and supplement Sam’s scholarships, would choose the very same. He’s a good mechanic, but it’s not what he loves.

And it took Sam long enough to realize that hunting is not what Dean loves, either. It’s a hobby more than a life, now. It doesn’t seem like John is looking for them. Like, at all. Dean hasn’t hunted in months. Hasn’t needed to. Neither has Sam.

They’ve got everything they need right here.

Some nebulous moment later, Sam opens eyes he hadn’t realized he closed. Dean is crawling around, jiggling the mattress like an earthquake, flopping down with his face mere inches from Sam’s. He’s flushed, golden and happy. It’s a beautiful sight.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Sam repeats, smiling lazily.

Then he sits bolt upright. “My fucking exam!”

“Language, Sammy!” Dean chortles as Sam bounds up, yanking his pants together, casting around frantically for his messenger bag. “Captain America would not approve.”

“I don’t care what Captain America thinks,” Sam says, grabbing what he needs.

He slips on his shoes. “He’s not the superhero I look up to.”

A meaningful glance between them would have him getting hard again if he didn’t have a test to catch, then pass.

“Lock the door behind you!” he calls as he whirls, exits, and shuts it.

 _“Knock ‘em dead!”_ is bellowed through the wood.

A residual shiver passes through Sam’s frame. As he scurries down to the lobby, out into the bright afternoon, he begins his concentration exercises. Ones Dean taught him. Dean has taught him a lot of useful things.

Maybe his brother will still be there when he gets back...

**Author's Note:**

> title and lyric in the summary are from [we can make the world stop](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-k_Eg7zXuc) by the glitch mob.


End file.
